BUMPO
On June 19, 1986, I was home from college and taking a history class in the summer session at the local junior college in my hometown. It was around 7:30 p.m. and the instructor was lecturing about the importance of the civil war. Yada yada yada… I simply didn’t feel like being there. So after a few minutes had passed, I got up from my seat and quietly walked out of the room. I went to my mother’s house, which is where I stayed in the summer awaiting the fall semester to begin. I arrived at home to find a note on the kitchen table from my mother.
Ocean Beach, in San Francisco
Waters of many hues,
a sky painted by atmospherics
and clouds, and setting sun,
and emotions run wild.
“On Hereditary Trauma: My Mother’s Narrative and Me"
Poetry, to me, is emotion or experience manifested in its most candid form. It is artistic expression so honest that only one sequence of words, thoughtfully and meticulously arranged, can express it. And though the content of its expression might be weakness, or embarrassment or fear or imperfection, the expression is perfect in itself. In this way, in this honest, perfect imperfection, my mother exemplifies poetry.
7 year bitch
Every where I go
Voila! There I am.
Making a mess.
Can't even give a compliment
Without pissing off
Some insecure housewife.
Three Poems
All About Being Rescued
As our minds travel in the same direction,
back to the same scene,
back to the moment of laughing out loud.
Traveling to the exact same place,
where we both knew just
what the other one meant.
Three Poems
Tasting of Hurricane
At sixteen, he hammers
black stones
to fit over breasts,
to bless the new wine
tasting of hurricane.
NYC Subway Poem
Fun now
to take the late train in the evening
Sort of an evening out
even if one is going home.
Three Poems
but i’m
gonna make this simple
you
kinda make my eyes dance and
i’m on an endless river bank
fuchsia rose petals under feet